


Tell Me

by 35-leukothea (35_leukothea)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/M, MSR, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 20:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6722407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35_leukothea/pseuds/35-leukothea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's not much to do with yourself when your life purpose has been burned to the ground, is there?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me

**Author's Note:**

> this is sooo self-indulgent oh my god don't look at me
> 
> takes place immediately after 5.20 (pre-FTF)

Destroyed.

His life’s work; the work of others before him. Not taken, not this time—destroyed. Razed. There’s an overwhelming mix of emotions radiating from him, fury and despair and fear of a fire that no longer burns. It hits Scully all at once, the magnitude of this cataclysm, and she thinks she might keel over from the sheer force of it. And if that’s how it makes her feel, she cannot fathom, doesn’t _want_ to fathom, what is going on inside her best friend’s head right now.

She steps forward and holds him, forcing her breaths to make a metronome even if it blurs her vision. She presses her forehead to his shoulder, feeling the monumental tension that’s frozen his body in place, wishing she could take some of it from him. All she wants to do is hold him together.

_This is not the end of you, Fox Mulder_ , she tells him. _We’ve gone through so much worse and come out alive. Each time, we come out alive._

But not everything else does.

 

* * *

 

It’s quiet, so quiet, as they go home. She’s reminded of Melissa’s death by it, and how Mulder mourned her loss more than he mourned her sister’s life. Scully can’t even think of the X-files right now, not any further past what they meant to her partner. They make it all the way to Alexandria, to his building, and into number 42 without saying a word; the click of metal as she turns the lock on his door sounds like thunder.

With tacit solidarity, they let each other alone. Mulder immediately disappears into the bathroom, where he stays for a long time. Scully sheds her coat, kicks off her shoes, and curls up on the couch, staring at the fish and listening to the water filter. If it weren’t for the insistent ticking of her watch by her ear, she is sure she would feel as if time had stopped entirely.

After some number of minutes she cannot quantify, she forces herself to her feet and paces the apartment. There’s nothing unfamiliar to look at anymore, no picture she hasn’t scrutinized or book she hasn’t skimmed. On her third round, she stops in the kitchen and makes tea. Then she drinks her tea. Then she drinks Mulder’s tea because it’s nearly gone cold and he’s still locked in the bathroom, and there isn’t that much of it anyway. Even after two mugs of it, she can still taste smoke in her mouth and throat, filling her lungs, blocking her nose. She realizes she must smell like the acrid fumes, too. She has spare clothes here from the numerous times she’s slept over, and decides they’re better than the ones she’s wearing even if they haven’t been washed. She goes into Mulder’s bedroom (or whatever that room is called) and locates them on top of a dresser—at the moment, all that’s there is an old Georgetown t-shirt, sweatpants, socks, and a navy sweater she had been looking for a few days ago, but they’re all clean. Next to the dresser sits the pair of sneakers she wore nearly to death her last year of med school, now retired to emergency use. Scully changes, then throws her work clothes and shoes and her coat unceremoniously into a plastic bag. The sweater, she figures, she can wear home, no matter how silly it’ll look with sweats. She’s just thinking she might like to wash her hair when Mulder emerges from the bathroom, clothed in sweatpants and a t-shirt just like she is.

He does not appear surprised to see her standing in his room in the relative dark. His skin is pink and his eyes are shot, and Scully can imagine that he turned up the water pressure in the shower as high as it could go. She’s worried, but she tries to match his expressionlessness, as if that might expunge her own feelings as well as his. He sits down on his bed, and without a word, she sits down next to him—he’s been alone long enough.

He slouches as she sits, like he wants to lean into her but isn’t letting himself. Scully lets him have his space, apprehensive of what might happen if she touches him. There’s something very strange, very dark happening between them right now, something indescribable. Their silence has changed, shifted from harmonious to ominous, and for some reason, she cannot refrain from staring.

There’s a sudden clap of thunder, and they both start. Scully looks away now, and waits for rain. She waits for several minutes. It doesn’t rain.

“Mulder,” she whispers.

He flinches.

“Mulder, say something.”

He says, “Sorry.”

She shuts her eyes tight and grips the bedclothes. _That’s not what I wanted_ , she tells him. _You know that’s not what I wanted._

There’s more thunder, lower this time. Mulder, apparently unable to hold himself up any longer, falls backwards onto the bed. She turns to look down at him, and finally lets herself frown when she sees his eyes are closed.

“My head is killing me,” he mumbles, hoarse.

“You’re probably dehydrated.” She automatically goes to feel his forehead but stops abruptly, her hand hovering just inches from his skin. She draws it away, then stands. “I’ll bring you something.”

He makes no sign he heard, but he doesn’t need to. Scully heads to the kitchen and comes back with ibuprofen and a tall glass of water with a plastic straw. She knows he won’t use the straw.

“Sit up and drink all of that,” she instructs, trying to be gentle but still firm, and holds out the medicine for him. He takes it, swallows it dry, then downs half the glass in one go. Then he takes out the straw and bites on it.

“The water, Mulder,” she reminds him.

He finishes the rest of it, then lies back on the bed and pulls her down with him. She inhales sharply, surprised, but does not move away. His hand curls around her bicep like he wants to make sure she’s still real, and Scully thinks he doesn’t realize how much he anchors her to reality by doing so. It’s symbiotic, comforting; a sign that their silence has again changed since being once broken. She can hear Mulder chewing the straw quietly, and her own deliberate breaths—they’re both still nervous. She wonders if he’s thinking about fire, or the Cancer Man, or his sister. After a few minutes, he tosses the straw back into the empty glass, completely misshapen.

With carefully pronounced conviction, she says, “It’ll be alright, Mulder.”

He shakes his head, though whether in denial or uncertainty, she can’t tell.

“This isn’t the end,” she says. “I know you won’t accept this as an end.”

“Scully, they hate us.”

She glances at him, eyes wide—past the exhaustion and the pain and the defeat, there’s something vindictive in his sore voice, some undeniable note of malice that keeps him from sounding like himself.

“We’re not worth it to them,” he continues bitterly, glaring at the ceiling. “Your life isn’t worth it. The truth isn’t worth it.”

“Mulder…”

“I can’t believe we even made it this far. They’re just cleaning up. Hey—” He laughs, short and derisive, which tells Scully that he’s on the verge of tears. “Ten bucks says they ship one of us off to Alaska next month.”

She sighs, feeling useless. “Don’t give up.”

The pressure releases from her arm and she feels his hand slip into hers. “There’s not much to give up, anyway.”

“There’s me.”

“The spy.”

She smiles a little, because he sounds better, and rubs her face with her free hand. “Yeah,” she agrees. “The spy. How’s your head?”

“Okay.”

“You should sleep.”

His unspoken words are clear: _Easier said than done_. Still, he sits up and adjusts their position, holding Scully to him as he pulls the covers over both of them. She doesn’t think she’ll be able to sleep, either, but she doesn’t mind. She can’t imagine doing anything else instead.

It begins to rain, and they take up their third silence. _We’ll fix this, Mulder_ , she tells him. _Maybe not tomorrow, or the day after that, but we’ll fix it._

**Author's Note:**

> does mulder even have a bed before s6?? who knows  
> I suppose I could've had this happen at scully's place but WHATEVER


End file.
